Yes, it certainly was.  You see, today I picked up The Precious and took him for a haircut.  All the way there we talked about getting a haircut.  He has had other haircuts, and this has never been a problem.  I felt good about taking him to get his haircut.  I had told him that after the haircut we would go get ice cream (always a good bribe).

Our hairstylist has had to find another job.  Apparently in a recession people don’t need as many haircuts, so she now works for a Vet’s office in another state.  So we were off to visit a new stylist in our old salon.  We walked in and all was cool.  We read a Highlight’s magazine.  He was cool going in to the salon’s interior, but then she put the booster in the chair.  OMG!!  He went ape crap!  He was like a child possessed.  He was crying at the top of his little lungs “NO, haircut!  I don’t want it!  No…” over and over again.  I tried the old “ooh…it’s mine and you can’t have it” routine and it worked right up to the point where he was supposed to place his precious butt in the booster and then he was off again.  More screaming, more circles, more glaring stares from old ladies under dryers.  Please, like I’m enjoying this…the kid looks like Ryder Hudson, something has to be done.  I finally just picked his Preciousness up and put him in my lap.  I held him down while he was getting his hair done.Neither of us wore capes so we effectively looked like missing links when we were done.  He screamed, he twisted, he pulled, he tugged and did everything but bite my hand.  You would have thought he was being water boarded.  When we were finally done he turned his little tear stained face to the beautician and said “thank you for haircut.”  Which came out like “tank too for hairtut”.  The salon staff melted.  I don’t know if it was because that last line was just too freaking sweet or because I tipped 50%.  Whatever.

When we left the salon I was going to take him for ice cream.  However; he was covered in hair from head to toe.  So was I.  So I decided we would go wash up a bit.  OMG!!  Round two commenced with tiny little arms flailing around pissing and moaning about not getting ice cream.  Try as I might I couldn’t convince him that we were indeed getting ice cream.  We just needed to clean up.  I took the now hairy, sweaty, snotty mess home.  I don’t know why I felt he needed to clean up.  When that was taken care of we went for ice cream.  Yes, I now know that cleaning a child before you take them for ice cream is stupid.  In my defense, this is my first grandchild.  I did have a spare t-shirt with me this time and my watch battery needed to be changed, so we went to JC Penney to get a battery for my watch.  I parked in the lower level because the parking is better, and I was thinking that the escalator would be a treat.  As soon as he saw the moving stairs he went nuts!  Again, with the screaming.  Again with the crying, but this time we added running like Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man to the performance.  Please add to this: me with a Budin’ thermos full of juice, a way too huge purse, and my orthopedic boot protecting my maimed foot, running full tilt after him.  He had no idea how to get out of the store so he is just running like a rat through a maze.  I grabbed him and held him down (again) just so we could go upstairs.  Now he is just heaving.  He is shaking…as my father would have said…like a dog passing peach pits as we go up the escalator.  All the while I am saying in a very soothing voice, “these are fun stairs.  I like these stairs.  Aren’t they fun?  Whee!!” and so on.  He finally calms down.  We go to the jewelry counter and the whole time he has his eye on the escalator.  As soon as we turn to go, it starts again.

By the time we get to my car he is chanting “go to Emmy’s house” and flinching every time the car stops.  You would think he was suffering from post traumatic stress disorder.  I assured him that I had no desire to take him anywhere else.  I was heading straight home.  I didn’t plan to leave until his mother took him home, and then I intended to find the nearest bar with a swimming pool sized margarita and drink myself blind.  He cried again when he heard that he was eventually going home.  His mother came to pick him up around 6:30 pm.  He cried when he couldn’t watch fireworks on the computer.  He cried when she took away his potato chips on his Budin’ plate so that his dinner could be placed on it.  Although, he thank me quite sweetly when I handed him the food on his plate.  He cried when she gave him the wrong juice.  I swear if she had come in wearing the wrong look on her face, he would have had a melt down.  Through this all, he tells anyone who will listen about the “fun stairs” and his “hairtut”.  You would think he had a blast!!  So…after 5+ hours she mentioned that they were going home.  Guess what…he cried.  “My Emmy, My Emmy…help me Emmy”.  I helped him.  I helped him right into his car seat.  I kissed him.  I told him I loved him.  I kissed him again, and I sent him home.

I’m leaving on Friday and won’t see him for almost a week.  I nearly always see him on Sunday’s and I was concerned about how much I would miss him.  Don’t get me wrong the love is still there, but the worn out is definitely taking precedence.  Maybe he will be in a better mood by August.